Chapter Nine: The Little Horse

Though his mother had strictly forbidden Lu Jing from ever touching clay again, he still watched with unmistakable envy whenever the Zhang siblings shaped and molded it. He remained, as ever, the one person left with nothing to do but grow restless with idleness, his hands drifting again and again toward the clay figurines the siblings were forming. Whenever Zhang Ning noticed, she would slap his restless hands away with her own, still slick with mud.

Seeing this, Amo would hurry over with a clean cloth to wipe Lu Jing's hands — better safe than sorry, and even that counted as having touched clay-water.

The lady of the house had said: "Absolutely not permitted."

Lu Jing felt as though eyes were watching him from every direction, and his soft, pale hands were nearly rubbed raw from all the wiping. It was only when Zhang Ning finally found a moment of ease in her own work that she walked over to Lu Jing with unusual gravity.

"Last time you shaped clay yourself, you fell gravely ill — and you still haven't given up on the idea?" Zhang Ning took a sip of tea, then continued: "Is there something you want shaped, my lord? Aning could do it for you."

"Aning... truly... could you help me?" At these words, Lu Jing felt as though joy had fallen from the heavens; his face, which had carried a certain shadow, instantly came alive again.

Aning nodded, saying earnestly, "Today's work is nearly finished. My hands are quick — shaping something for you won't take much time at all, and it can go into the kiln together with the rest."

"A horse."

Lu Jing rubbed his fingers together, thinking hard for a good while, before answering with unmistakable certainty.

"You like horses, my lord?" Zhang Ning set down her Yuezhou celadon tea bowl as she raised the question.

"I want to ride a horse — to ride and shoot arrows, like my father and brothers. But... but..." As Lu Jing spoke of riding and archery, his eyes lit up at once like a child's; yet the moment he remembered how his frailty since childhood had kept him from galloping freely on horseback as the other men of the Lu clan did, his face darkened once more.

"I understand." Zhang Ning nodded and turned toward the clay.

"Aning will shape a little horse for you — one you can hold in your hand at all times, to keep you company. Would that do?"

"Good... good... Aning, I'm in your debt." Lu Jing's face broke into a delighted smile, his voice betraying his excitement.

Lu Jing watched with rapt attention as Aning shaped the clay with her bare hands — after all, a horse small enough to fit in one's palm needed no mold; it depended entirely on the skillful work of Zhang Ning's clever fingers, drawing out its form bit by bit. What had begun as a shapeless lump of clay gradually took on, in her hands, a horse's head, body, and legs. Lu Jing thought that Zhang Ning was truly gifted with heart and hand alike — a mere lump of soft clay, and yet in her grip it came vividly to life, taking on whatever shape she willed, seemingly without the slightest effort.

Watching Zhang Ning's deft, nimble hands at work, Lu Jing suddenly had a flash of inspiration. He moved closer to her and asked in a lowered voice, "Aning, could you also shape a figurine for me?"

"What sort of figurine?" Zhang Ning asked, still busy with her hands.

"Myself."

Zhang Ning froze for a moment, then looked up at Lu Jing, her face full of confusion.

"Why would you want a figurine of yourself, my lord?"

"In truth, I have always been like a piece of pottery held in my mother's hands. For twenty years she has cradled me with the utmost care, terrified that one small mistake might crush me or let me fall to the ground. If, one day, I am no longer here, there will still need to be a Jing'er to keep my mother company..."2

"My lord..." Zhang Ning suddenly felt a sharp ache in her heart. Lu Jing spoke as though arranging his own final affairs, and it left her momentarily unable to find any words at all.

"All right." Without quite realizing it, Zhang Ning's eyes had reddened. She sniffed and said, "If I'm to shape it in your likeness, you must sit properly before me, my lord, so that I can look carefully at your form and your expression."

Lu Jing nodded again and again in agreement. This was also the first time Zhang Ning had ever studied him so closely. His brows and eyes carried a noble, refined serenity, striking and handsome beyond the ordinary — the dignified bearing of a great aristocratic house was visible, at a glance, in the very set of his brow and the corner of his eye. And it was precisely because she was examining him so carefully for the first time that she noticed it: more than once, he frowned and pressed a hand to his chest.

In that moment, Zhang Ning remembered again that this figurine was meant to be left for his mother, and her own eyes grew unwittingly clouded. She could not help wiping at her tears with her sleeve, and Lu Jing quietly stepped forward and offered her his handkerchief.

"Don't cry, Aning. That day will come sooner or later."

At this, Zhang Ning wept all the harder. Her hands were covered in clay and could not take the handkerchief, so Lu Jing himself held it and wiped the tears from her face.

"Aning only wishes that you, my lord, live a good life."